Wishes
by Mezfrem
Summary: Christine has been forced into a world of chaos. Now she must decide how she wants her story to end, but will she finally be able to find peace?
1. The Graveyard

**Name: **Wishes

**Rating: **T, perhaps higher for later chapters

**Summary: **Christine has been forced into a world of chaos. Torn in so many directions, she must now decide how she wants her story to end, as she prepares to perform her angel's opera.

**Disclaimer: **By the age of PotO, you can probably guess I don't own it… never have, never will… I can dream though! All characters belong to Leroux, Webber, and anyone else who took up the task of creating the wonderful characters of Phantom.

This is my first attempt in a long time in producing a more-than-one-chapter story for ya'll! It's set just after the events of the masquerade, and while some of the dialogue alludes to the film, the chandelier crash has already happened… so it's a bit of a mix between the book/movie/film! I'm not too sure where this is going to go yet, although I do have some ideas, so do let me know what you think so I can add to my original plan :) For now, please ENJOY!

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The graveyard was cold, icy against the bare skin at Christine's shoulders. She shivered deeper into her coat, clasping her gloved hands tighter together, staring up at the crypt of her father's grave. As she knelt there in the snow, she pondered over her choices. Her decision to run from her teacher – from her angel – instead of embrace him for what he was, and her decision to accept Raoul's proposal.

Sweet as it was, the horrid feeling of doubt that had settled in Christine's mind frightened her, and she traced the chain around her neck idly with one shaking finger.

"What am I to do, Papa?" She bid tiredly, her head falling, eyes trained on the white ground she knelt on. Vaguely, she felt the wetness of melting snow drench her skirts, heavy and chilly. She couldn't find the energy to care, though.

How had her life turned to such chaos? A few short months ago she was happy! Happy to be a dancer in the ballet of the operas, to train her voice with her angel after rehearsals, or late at night when everyone else had long since retired from the Opera House. She had been happy to live her simple, charming existence. Although she'd dreamed of the idea of becoming the star of one of the many shows she'd been in since arriving at the Opera House, she'd never expected to be thrown into that role so swiftly, so suddenly without so much as a warning! She knew now that it was his doing; it was all a part of Erik's plan. How foolish she was to ever think differently.

And then Raoul was there, sitting at the sidelines, flashing her that smile which had long ago always made her weak at the knees. Did she still feel that way about him? It had been years since they'd been those two young children, playing silly games in attics long forgotten. She'd run to Raoul after the unmasking, her fairytale dreams of her angel shattered as she revealed him to only be a man – a disfigured, pitiful man who had so easily preyed on her innocence! _Foolish_, Christine thought, how foolish she was to ever believe that such a thing as an _Angel of Music_ existed!

She gripped her ring tighter as a horrible chill silenced her thoughts.

Things had been so simple.

Her limbs ached, her head spun, and as she slowly stood up, already regretting kneeling when her knees brushed the soaking fabric of her dress, she sighed heavily. She should return to the Opera House.

"Christine…"

As she turned, the voice caught her ear and stopped her dead, her foot half raised to take a step forward. If she'd been any quicker in her movements, she would have no doubt fallen over, but out of sheer luck she stayed upright, head snapping back towards the crypt, eyes scanning the monument for any form of life.

She knew the voice – how could she not?

So beautiful.

So hypnotic.

It was not her father – no, how could that voice ever belong to her father? But… perhaps it was okay… just for this once – that she pretended that she actually _believed _it were her father's voice? Erik had been out of her life for so long… away from her presence for so long… and now he called so blatantly to her! Disguised as always, yes… but still he called.

"Christine!" He said again, more urgently.

Where was he, behind the crypt? Perhaps above it… Christine wanted to smile at his ability to hide so well. She stepped towards the grave, hesitant, knowing that she shouldn't dare risk it.

Six months. She'd not seen him, not heard from him, sung with or to him in over six months! And she'd pined, God how she'd pined for him. Raoul was a more than adequate substitute – of course he was! Charming, elegant, handsome… but Christine had so very much missed her rendezvous' with Erik, missed his steady guidance and conversations. She missed the catacombs and that dark, mysterious house he had taken her to.

Her mind had begun to wander to that place when movement caught her eye, a dark shape that stood at the corner of the crypt. Her attention snapped towards it, and she drank in the sight of Erik – of her Angel. And he stared back, breathing heavily, as though the thought that she could see him frightened him half to death. He wore his long, black coat that looked so thick and warm, but his hat was missing, making the white mask stand blatantly out against his skin, his one visible cheek rosy from the cold of the winter air around them. His wig was perfectly in place, and the clothes he wore beneath the coat looked as expensive and tidy as ever. Forever the embodiment of elegance and poise.

"Christine…" he breathed once more, the sound almost caught and carried away by the wind. His eyes took her in, scanning every inch of her, and although Christine knew her reaction to his presence shouldn't be so shameless, a content shiver ran up the length of her spine.

All thoughts of his violent outburst six months before vanished, the memory of the chandelier falling towards her, so close to crushing her, fleeing her mind, if only momentarily. Instead, the image of her angel dressed as Red Death flashed through her memory, his brave façade so candid that night of the masquerade, only a few days earlier. He'd been so harsh, and yet at the same time so gentle when he'd bid her to him, barking his orders like a hurt child who felt in need of retribution.

As she drew away from the thought, she noticed him again staring at the chain she wore around her neck, and raised her hand in an attempt to cover it from view.

"Why?"

How could she answer that? She watched as his jaw tightened, and he growled angrily in his throat, stepping closer. Christine took a weary step back at his advance, stopping him dead in his track, arm half outstretched as though to reach for her. He pulled back, as though in check of his anger, breathing in deeply to calm himself, "I don't want to fight with you, Christine…" he finally assured her.

"Nor I with you," she managed in as strong of a voice as she could muster. It was hard, she realized, to sound strong after so many tears had been shed, so many hours spent weeping over actions passed. She felt her nails digging into the palm of her hands, where she held them in fists as her side.

"I've missed you." He confessed, trying again to step closer to her.

This time, Christine did not retreat, instead stood her ground and nodded.

At that little form of encouragement, Erik's eyes brightened and he nodded, "So much…"

"_Ange_…"

The name was like heaven to his ears, and he had to close his eyes, to savor the sound of it as it left her perfect lips, if only for a second. He regained his composure quickly, making an attempt to clear his throat and return his gaze to her small form, "What-"

He couldn't finish.

"Christine!"

Christine's attention was lost, and her head snapped towards the tombstones a little way down the graveyard, to where Raoul was running towards her, worry etched in his features. She blinked, and on realization of her actions, stepped back, shaking her head miserably. Erik cursed, anger contorting his features. He snapped towards the Vicomte, and Christine lost track of the insults and accusations they threw at each other. She watched, helpless, as the two men she cared most about drew their swords.

"Raoul!" She tried to object, but neither listened.

For a moment, she thought it horribly unfair that Raoul were to draw his weapon on Erik. Swordsmanship was a natural skill for the Vicomte and Christine feared that Erik would be no match for her fiancé. She was very wrong, it turned out, as he quickly proved himself to be quite the opponent, easily escaping Raoul's blows and elegantly returning his own. Still, Christine held her breath, ignoring the question that played on her mind over the origin of Erik's own skill.

It was only another reason not to trust him, she finally dismissed.

Somehow, the men had taken the fight nearer to the gates of the graveyard, and she quickly followed, keeping as greater distance as possible. Her breaths were sharp and panicked, and she suddenly realized how foolish it was that she ever thought it was a good idea to come here now, to her father's grave at this time.

Raoul played some crafty maneuver, and with a cry, Erik was on his back, arms outstretched in the snow. For a horrible second, Christine glimpsed the fury in her fiancé's eyes, the unspoken rage as he lifted his weapon to strike.

"No Raoul!" She quickly cut in, a high-pitched cry which caught both men's attention. She rushed towards them, standing between them both to stop any more violence from occurring, "Not like this. Please, Raoul."

She couldn't look at Erik, forced herself not to, out of fear of what she'd find in those beautiful eyes. Raoul finally nodded, conceding to her request, and shielded his sword. With an inaudible sigh of relief, she felt his warm hand find hers, and he began to drag her away, towards the road outside of the cemetery that led back to the forever-bustling city.

"No! Don't stop now! We're only beginning!" Erik tempted the Vicomte where he was left in the snow, but with a squeeze of Christine's hand around Raoul's, he conceded to leaving the man behind him be, pressing on towards the gates.

Only then did Christine risk a glimpse back. For a moment, Erik remained where he was on the ground, panting, the same as Raoul, from the exertion of the fight. When he caught her eye he lifted himself up effortlessly, returning her gaze in an unspoken question – are _you_ alright? Christine gave him a slight nod, trying to block out the intensity of his stare.

Raoul didn't notice.

Christine did, though, that that stare wasn't just another of Erik's so very direct gazes – it was an unspoken promise that she would be seeing him again.

Very soon.

A horrible shiver ran down her spine at the thought, and she finally turned away, leaving her angel alone in the graveyard as she was led to where Raoul lifted her swiftly onto his waiting horse.


	2. Dressing Room Reunion

**Name: **Wishes

**Rating: **T, perhaps higher for later chapters

**Summary: **Christine has been forced into a world of chaos. Torn in so many directions, she must now decide how she wants her story to end, as she prepares to perform her angel's opera.

**Disclaimer: **By the age of PotO, you can probably guess I don't own it… never have, never will… I can dream though! All characters belong to Leroux, Webber, and anyone else who took up the task of creating the wonderful characters of Phantom.

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Her dressing room felt _too _empty. It had felt the same for months. Six months, to be exact. That lingering presence that Christine had once so often felt had vanished, gone with Erik to wherever it was he'd disappeared to. Since then, whenever she had entered the room, Christine had to pause, to wait and sense if she could feel her angel's presence. She never did though, to her disappointment, and with a huff she went about her business. Tonight, though, she paused to check, and didn't un-pause. She sat down at her dresser, staring with weary eyes at herself in the mirror, and waited for that presence to return.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Minutes ticked by, and still nothing changed. Eventually her patience wore thin and she picked herself up with an annoyed breath of air, dragging her chair towards the full-length mirror and taking a seat in front of it, arms folded as she waited for Erik to come to her. She was sure he would, sure he wouldn't just leave her alone after the events in the graveyard. He obviously wanted to talk to her, otherwise why risk appearing to her in the first place?

She must have been sitting there for well over another hour before she felt her eyelids grow heavy with the need to sleep. It was late, the sun long set beyond the Opera House doors. Raoul had instructed her to go straight to bed when he brought her back, refused to leave until he had shown her right to the dormitory door. He'd kissed her cheek and instructed her not to worry, and she'd smiled sweetly and told him the same thing. After waiting ten or so minutes she'd ventured back down to her dresser, ignoring the need to sleep in favor of meeting with Erik – she wanted to make sure that he was alright after the fight in the graveyard, after all.

And so it was very disappointing that he had not turned up.

With a yawn, Christine made to rise and replace her chair back by the dresser, but then she hesitated, an indescribable feeling settling in her gut. She sat back down, her eyes still on the mirror in front of her.

"Have you been here long?"

She almost jumped out of the chair.

The voice hadn't come from in front of her. No, it was from behind that Erik had spoken, and she spun around where she sat, one arm draped across the back of her chair as she scanned the room for him. He stood in the corner to the left, bathed in shadows, practically concealed from view. Christine had never thought of the possibility that the room contained any other entrance points, but she supposed now that it must, and vaguely wondered how long he'd been standing there, simply watching her.

"Not long," she lied, and the tiny smile that teased at his lips suggested that he knew she was lying.

Christine felt her cheeks redden, a sensation she'd grown unaccustomed to out of Erik's presence. Standing from the chair, she reached to lift it and replace it where it belonged, but Erik swiftly crossed the room and did it for her – forever the gentleman. When he was done, he turned back to face her, hands poised behind his back, head held high. Christine wondered if he was trying to make up for her seeing him loose his battle with Raoul earlier. It couldn't have helped his ego.

"Have you recovered from the… events of today?" He asked casually.

Her brow furrowed slightly, and she gave a slight shrug, "I wasn't the one who drew a sword."

He laughed, but it wasn't humorous, as he turned and lifted one of the perfumes she'd placed on the dresser into his hand. Raoul had bought it for her a couple of weeks before, and it held a glorious scent. Now, Christine hoped like mad that Erik didn't ask where she'd acquired it. He didn't though, merely observed the bottle for a view seconds before replacing it back where he found it.

A certain awkward silence had fallen between them, probably something to do with being out of each other's presence for so long. "Are you well?" Christine finally asked, unsure of what else to say.

Erik cocked his head curiously, as though the question was too hard to answer, and he raised his one visible eyebrow as he considered the words, "If you're asking after my health, then yes, I'm perfectly well."

Christine couldn't bear to think about the meaning behind his choice in words that he used to answer, and nodded quickly, turning away from him and glancing at the mirror behind her. She wondered if he'd offer to take her below with him, to his home in the catacombs she so curiously pined for.

"And you, Christine; are you well, too?"

"I'm well, thank you."

He nodded in agreement, "But venturing out into a cold winter's day will do nothing for your health. That was foolish."

She blushed at his chastising tone, and looked down at her hands, anywhere but into his eyes, "Yes, Erik, I know."

He froze then, drawing in an almost inaudible breath of air as he stared down at her. For a second, Christine thought he was listening for something he must have heard outside of the room, but then came to the realization that it was her use of his name that had sparked the reaction in him. Had she not ever used his real name before? Once, when he'd first told it to her, the night he'd revealed himself to her after her performance in _Hannibal_ – the night she'd discovered he wasn't really an angel. He'd told her his name and she'd repeated it back to him, testing it on her tongue to see if she'd liked it or not. She hadn't decided at the time, but now that she used it, it seemed to work quite nicely for him. Although, she wasn't sure she cared for the reaction. How many people had ever spoken his name so casually with him? Very few, Christine wagered.

"Erik," she said again, wondering if it would cause the same effect.

There was no intake of breath, but he continued to stare at her, eyes wide, and she was certain that he was shaking a little. He took a step away from her, one hand raised almost defensively.

"You've been gone," she stated.

He finally recovered, a snarl at his lips, "Well, I can't see any evidence that my absence was missed-"

"Oh, but it was, _Ange_! Six months without your guidance! Six months without-"

Erik shook his head and waved a hand at her to silence her words, "I am not an angel, Christine. You should have realized that by now."

His so very casual way of dismissing her almost made Christine cry out. He was moving towards the mirror, a little closer to her, but only in an attempt to get around her, and in fear that he was trying to leave, she blurted out, "How could I _not_ realize that by now, Erik? After all that you have done!"

She knew the reaction she'd get from that – expected it. But an angry Erik was better than no Erik at all at that point, and Christine braced herself for the fury that she had no doubt just incited. He spun to fully face her, anger blatant in his features, and the glow of the candles that lit the room cast eerie shadows on his mask, making the contraption seem even more menacing than usual.

He growled deep in his throat, coming to stand not a foot away from her, and Christine raised her hands in a feeble attempt to block his path, not quite resting them against his broad chest, but hovering in the air a few centimeters between their bodies. "All _I_ have done? Foolish girl! I was not the one who left you alone, I didn't run off into the arms of another, confessing my love for them and leaving you for dead! A monster," he spat, eyes glaring down at her, "That's what I am, correct? That's what you told your dear Vicomte! And you are right, Christine, I _am_ a monster, one who you've left heartbroken and miserable – and one who can yet no longer bear your absence from his life! _I was gone_, yes, I was, Christine, and yet not once did you seek me out, not once did you beg for me to return. And how could I come to you, when I knew how sorely you wished to only be in the arms of your lover, away from the horror that is _me_!"

He stepped back, panting, breathless from his sprawl, and Christine could instantly see the regret that past over his features. He composed himself quickly, though, and stood straight, returning to his uncaring, harsh façade. She couldn't speak, could barely breath as she processed the words he'd so harshly thrown at her. Six months of pent-up rage that he'd had no one to expel it on, and at the first chance, like she'd assumed he would, he'd snapped at her. Christine had no reply for him, only a simple observation that she'd summarized from what he'd said.

"You were on the roof…" She breathed.

Erik's eyes widened as though he couldn't believe she hadn't already known that, and he shook his head incredulously, "Of course, Christine! Of course I was there, of course I heard what you said to that… that boy, who is so unworthy of your presence, and yet you give him your love unconditionally!"

"I'm sorry, Erik."

"Sorry?" He seemed taken back, having to catch his breath after repeating the word, taking a second to consider it, "You're sorry, Christine? Why? You had rid yourself of the monster you so candidly spoke of! Are you sorry that I'm here now, is that it, that I'm back in your life once again?" He was practically yelling the words at her, and she felt her hips dig into the dresser behind her as she stepped backwards, hands still raised.

"No, Erik! Of course not!

"Then why! Christine! Why?" As he advanced towards her again, he fell to his knees, his head hanging low between his shoulders, unable to look at her.

How long had he wanted to ask her that question, Christine thought miserably. He couldn't look at her now, instead studied the floor at her feet, and sniffed as though that were easier than taking a proper breath. Christine had a horrible urge to reach out and comfort him – an urge that she was quick to ignore.

She planted her hands on the dresser behind her, keeping her steady, and stood her ground as she waited for the man at her feet to compose himself. He finally lifted his head to her, eyes dark with questions, "Will you not speak?"

Christine pressed her lips into a thin line, feeling her own anger swelling at the back of her throat, threatening to come out in more tears, "What am I to say?"

"Hmm," he almost laughed, considering her reply for only a moment before lifting himself back up off the ground.

They were silent for what seemed like a long time, just standing there in each other's presence, and neither wanted to object to the opportunity. No matter what emotion Erik was portraying, Christine had missed him, and hated the thought of him leaving her once again to the lonely dressing room. Eventually, he looked once again into her eyes, "Of all the people in the world, I wanted for you, so badly, to be only one who _didn't _see me as a monster."

The confession took her breath away, and Christine stared at the man before her, unsure of how to answer it. She shuffled on her feet and frowned deeply, and eventually Erik sighed, shaking his head like he'd ventured on some pointless endeavor, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"Erik-"

"I should leave you-"

"Erik!" Finally he looked back at her, and she was holding both of her arms out to him, outstretched. For a second, Erik almost mistook the stance for her wanting a hug, and took a step without any hesitation forward. Then he saw her look down at her own arms, turned so that her palms were facing upwards, exposing the pale skin of her forearms. He frowned, following her gaze, ignoring her as she sat down in the chair at her side, keeping her arms out for him to see, raised up a little higher.

Erik knelt down in front of her, taking both of her hands in his own gloved ones, staring intently at her arms, at the tiny scars that lined the flesh, tainting her otherwise perfect skin. Some were tiny, barely visible in the dark light of the candles, others were long, thin lines that would have once been quite harsh cuts. They trailed all the way up to her elbow, where her dress hid the rest from view. Some criss-crossed over each other, and some were more obvious than others; where some faded away and would soon vanish given enough time, others would mark her skin forever, a reminder of whatever damage had been caused.

"What did you do, Christine?" Erik breathed, running his index finger over one of the harsher scars, soft and delicate, as though she may fall to pieces if he pressed too hard.

Christine shook her head to correct him, wanted to pull away, but allowed the touches, allowed him to see what damage _he'd_ inflicted, "This was not caused by my clumsiness or foolishness, Erik. This was the result of a chandelier almost crushing me to death!"

Erik's gaze snapped up to Christine's eyes, searching for a lie to the claim she laid out for him. He shook his head in disbelief, "No, I… I made sure… you were an adequate distance away before… Christine I couldn't- I couldn't ever…"

She pulled her arms out of his grip, leaving his hands grasping the air, and she shook her head again, "Yes, Erik. I was still on that stage – it didn't matter how far away from it I was – the shards of glass that resulted from the crash still found somewhere to go. Many happened to hit me."

He was still shaking his head in disbelief, "I would never hurt you Christine. Oh, God… how could I… no… I was just so…"

She left him like that for a while, recalling the pain she'd gone through when the doctor had had to remove the shards of glass from her skin, the fear she'd felt when she'd seen that chandelier falling towards her. Finally, when Christine felt he'd suffered enough from his actions, pained herself to watch him like that, she raised one cautious hand towards him, letting her fingers brush the white of his mask, "Shh, Erik," she finally bid, "What's done is done."

"I'm so sorry, Christine!" He let his head drop, resting his forehead against the edge of her knee, groaning in regret at the thought of his actions, "I didn't mean to, I just…"

"You'd been on the roof, Erik. The things I said – it's _me _that should be apologizing to you!"

He sat up abruptly, a fierce shake of his head, "No!" He reached out suddenly, grasping Christine's small, shaking hands in his own, "No, Christine. If it was by my hands that left you these scars, then you should not apologize. A monster is what I am… and you could never love a man that caused you such harm…"

The misery in his voice was so rich that Christine felt her heart break. She pulled her hands free of his grasp and rested them on his shoulders, "Erik, listen to me. You are not a monster – I was so scared that night, and confused. You _murdered_ Bu-"

"Please don't, Christine," his voice was stronger now, a determination in it that brought back the power more evident in the voice of the Opera Ghost. Christine shivered, but nodded her head, unwilling to start another argument that she knew would end in more hurt. There was time for that discussion soon enough.

She closed her eyes, felt cold, ungloved fingers trail down the skin of her cheek, "You're tired," Erik observed, and she opened her eyes to his worried stare, one glove held in his unused hand.

"Yes."

With a reluctant sigh, Erik stood, and he nodded as though deciding something, "You will go to sleep then."

He turned to leave, but Christine swiftly stood up, turned to watch as he popped open the glass of the mirror by some unseen latch, "Erik!" She cried, realizing that he was disappearing again, returning to his home, running from her. Was that how their meetings would always end? With him leaving her so abruptly, alone and shaken?

"Yes, Christine?"

"Please…" but that was all she could muster, her ability to fathom proper sentences escaping her.

An idea seemed to dawn on him then, and he almost smiled as he stepped closer, an eagerness settling over him, "Would you, I mean…" He hesitated, his lips a thin line as he considered whether to ask her or not.

Curious, Christine raised an eyebrow, letting the hint of a smile play at the corner of her lips, "What, Erik?"

"You are learning my opera, which was designed for you… but it was designed to test you, test your strengths…" He was speaking the truth – the role was difficult, and Christine knew she had her work cut out for her when it came to learning it. She nodded eagerly as she waited for him to explain where he was going with this train of thought.

"You could use your teacher," he finally managed, not daring to look at her, clasping his hands together in some hopeful way. A horrid wave of relief swept over her at the thought, and Christine had to work hard to keep herself composed as she breathed out a breath of air she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Gripping the skirts of her dress tightly in her palms, she nodded slightly, letting a small smile stretch her lips, "That would be helpful, Erik."

"After rehearsals tomorrow then, I shall wait for you here."

"Thank you."

He nodded, and stepped into the space behind his mirror. Without another word, he disappeared from view as though he'd never been there to begin with. Christine waited a few moments, trying to keep herself composed. He was still watching her, she could sense that, and hated the thought that he might see her cry.

She waited, managed to hold the tears in as she silently crept out of the room, up to the dormitories and into bed. The tears fell freely then, as she lay under her blankets, and a horrible regret settled in her stomach. She needed to find Raoul tomorrow, to loose herself in his embrace – to reassure her that _that_ was her right path – Raoul was her future! She couldn't go back to Erik, couldn't trust Erik or rely on him for anything. But all she wanted, all she could think of, was being back in his presence, pictured letting _Erik _comfort her instead of her fiancé. It was so very wrong, and the thought of it made Christine cry all the more as she buried her head into her cold pillow.

She gripped her engagement ring tightly, staying as quiet as possible so as not to wake the other girls asleep around her. Erik would help her with the opera. That was all. He had hurt her; he had lost her trust when he had revealed what he really was. He was a monster, and she couldn't simply accept him back into her life again! Repeating that over a few times, Christine finally fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of nothing but a masked man, whisking her away to another world, and away from all her worries.

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**Hope ya'll are liking it so far! Reviews are always welcome! **


	3. A Morning Well Spent

**Name: **Wishes

**Rating: **T, perhaps higher for later chapters

**Summary: **Christine has been forced into a world of chaos. Torn in so many directions, she must now decide how she wants her story to end, as she prepares to perform her angel's opera.

**Disclaimer: **By the age of PotO, you can probably guess I don't own it… never have, never will… I can dream though! All characters belong to Leroux, Webber, and anyone else who took up the task of creating the wonderful characters of Phantom.

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It was worse than waking to the sound of some terrible storm outside when Meg jumped up and down above Christine, disturbing her from what little sleep she'd been able to acquire. The little blonde girl was calling Christine's name, repeating it over and over as she giggled with excitement. Christine groaned and groped at the air between them, trying to locate Meg without opening her eyes to push her from her bed. Finally, Meg took both of Christine's hands in her own and clasped them tightly, her thin, delicate fingers cool against Christine's skin.

"Christine," she bid in her little voice, full of a happiness that Christine hadn't heard in the girl in what seemed like weeks, "Raoul's here for you. Do get up. He has a surprise."

The thought of Raoul drove her into attentiveness, and Christine's eyes snapped open, "What do you mean?" Meg grinned childishly and pulled herself up and off of the low bed, standing beside her friend with her hands raised to her thin waist.

"Please get dressed, Christine. Rehearsals start soon, and I dare say you'll appreciate what the Vicomte has planned for you."

Christine sat up, confusion etched into her features, and she shook her head as she stared up at Meg, "What he's planned for me?" God, that didn't sound foreboding at all… She'd hoped to spend her morning in recluse, away from the forever-prying eyes of the other ballerinas and the harsh words of Carlotta – whenever the Prima Donna arrived to exult them. Meg had selected one of Christine's gowns from her wardrobe – a rosy pink thing that Raoul had once commented on that he liked. Christine could remember the day, when he'd taken her and Meg out to lunch at one of the many cafés in the city. Meg had tried to make her wear the dress again ever since, even though Christine had been reluctant – it wasn't one of her favorite dresses, and far from comfortable.

"Why must I wear-"

"Just put it on, Christine. You'll be glad you did," and with that, the ballerina turned and left Christine to change. Christine took her time, quelling the eagerness she felt to go and investigate what Raoul had brought for her. She laced her corset in one of the mirrors – with much difficulty on her own – and pulled the dress over her head, tying it tightly around her back. It was low cut and the sleeves were puffy around her elbows, distracting when she wanted to raise her arms. The skirts weren't so large that she found it awkward to move, but big enough that sitting down in it was a tight fit in any seat. She brushed her hair and tied it back into some casual style that Madame Giry had once taught her to do when she was younger.

With one last quick glance in the mirror, and a pinch of her cheeks to bring out a subtle blush, Christine headed downstairs. Raoul was waiting with open arms, and Christine was more than happy to fall into his embrace, letting him draw her in tightly, one arm around her waist, the other cupping her head softly.

"Darling," he almost laughed into her hair, a relaxed nature about him that Christine couldn't quite fathom. He'd been so on edge lately, and the thought of him as anything but was almost uneasy. Christine pulled back a little, not daring to leave his embrace, but looked up into her fiancés eyes with curiosity.

"Meg tells me you have something planned for me?"

Raoul shook his head, beaming a bright smile down at her, "For us. I thought we could go on a picnic." He didn't let her go, but stepped to the left to show that he had brought with him a large picnic basket and rug. Beside that was a large bouquet of flowers, rich red roses – a dozen of them – beautiful and fresh. Christine couldn't help but marvel at the sentiment, ignoring the feeling of eyes trained on her, somewhere hidden in the cold of the hall. Erik couldn't be watching her… could he? It was only too natural to assume that he was, but perhaps Christine was merely being paranoid. Still, she took a step back, clearing her throat and composing herself as Raoul made to lift the roses up, handing them to her.

"After this last week, and what happened yesterday, I thought you could use some cheering up," he explained proudly, watching as Christine lowered her head to inhale the sweet scent of the flowers. They were utterly stunning, like a drug on her senses, and she smiled contently with an approving nod. This was what she needed – her doting fiancé, showing his affections in that wonderful way he did.

He was still smiling broadly as he took the roses and went to put them on a table that lined the wall. She could tend to them later, but for now, with rehearsals only an hour away, they had a picnic to attend. "And you don't have to worry about me," he said as he bent down to pick up the blanket and basket, "that monster wont ever get to me, Christine. And he'll never get to you," oblivious to the colour that had so suddenly drained from his fiancé's rosy cheeks, he reached out and took her hand, "I'll always keep you safe." He coaxed her down and out of the hall, to one of the lower exits of the Opera House, where a carriage awaited them. Christine stayed quiet, considering his words. She hadn't ever been worried for Raoul. Yesterday, she'd only worried for Erik.

Her stomach churned as he helped her into the carriage and took a seat himself, instructing the driver to take them to the park not ten minutes away. Christine stared wearily out of the window, felt Raoul's hand reach out and encompass her own, "You mustn't worry, darling."

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and looked up at him, unsure of whether her voice would sound normal or not when she cleared her throat to speak, "I'm not, Raoul. It's just… this is all very… things are complicated."

"You'll perform the piece," – she noticed he never called it the opera – "and we'll catch this fiend who is forever playing on your innocence. He wont be able to try anything again after this, I promise you, Christine."

Christine's brow furrowed, and she cocked her head in confusion, "Catch him? What have you planned, Raoul?"

With a sigh, Raoul dropped her hand, turning his gaze instead to the window, studying the cobblestone streets as they passed them. His reluctance to explain inspired boldness in Christine, and she leaned forward, touching her hand to his knee in urgency, "Raoul," she said in a voice stronger than what she'd expected, "What have you planned?"

"I had hoped to inform you of it at a later date," he dismissed with a sigh, the slightest shake of his head, and he ran a hand through his hair, "…Well, your managers and myself have come to the conclusion that the only way to stop this madman – the _best_ time to stop this man – is during his show. With you on stage, and his utter obsession with you, there's no chance that he wont be there. The police have been informed – on opening night they'll be stationed around the Opera, lying in wait for when he shows himself…"

Christine could hardly believe her ears, "He's clever, Raoul. Do you really think he'll be so blatantly let himself be exposed to whatever tricks you've concocted?"

"No! Of course not," Raoul quickly answered, eyes scanning her face, in search of some emotion that he couldn't seem to locate. Reassurance, perhaps, was what he was looking for… but Christine could not give him that. "That is… apart of the plan," he finally said, reluctance drenching his tone, "We need you for it to work, Christine. You have to signal when he's there – where he is – if we haven't yet spotted him. It may be that he _only_ reveals himself to you, and if that's the case, then we could be totally oblivious to him…"

Christine nodded in understanding, a sort of detachment to this conversation settling in her. She didn't want to think of it – this was an utter, obvious betrayal. She could loath Erik, hate him for all eternity, but still she could not fathom betraying him in such a way. What would they do when she signaled his presence? Cart him away; lock him up in a madhouse somewhere for the rest of his sad, pitiful life? No! How could she ever do that to him! To her angel, as cruel as he'd been to her, as harshly as he'd treated her… Christine could _never _hurt him like that!

"I understand, darling, how hard this will be for you," Raoul said suddenly, sensing the doubt that she so obviously felt, "But you must think – when all of this is over, we'll be married… and if he's still here, still able to bother us like he can now, we'll never know peace! He'll haunt us forever, Christine, unless I do something about it now, while I can! We have the perfect opportunity!"

"But…"

Raoul didn't want to hear it. He let out a frustrated breath and shook his head, taking his fiancé's hands in his own, clasping them tightly to his chest, "Christine! Please…" he breathed, leaning forward, pressing a comforting kiss to her cheek. Weak, and still so very tired, Christine could only nod, realizing that there was no way to fight this. At least she knew now, she thought miserably, and could perhaps device her own plan to keep Erik safe.

Slowly she turned towards him, locating his lips with her own as she pressed lightly forward, sealing her consent to the plan with a kiss. Because, God help her, she couldn't _say_ the words of her consent! She'd be condemned in doing so! An unspoken promise would have to be better than one bound by words… Raoul deepened the action, holding her to him, one hand roping around her waist as he held her so delicately in his arms. His breath tickled her skin, and she drowned in the scent of him, her hands resting against his sturdy chest. This was what she needed – to loose herself, to forget her worries in the comfort of her fiancé's embrace. The seconds ticked by, and finally the sweet, chased kisses subsided with the carriage rolling to a halt.

Raoul pulled back slowly, his eyes racing the length of her, wonderfully content, "Shall we indulge in some breakfast, then?" He asked in that sweet, boyish charm of a voice. Christine only nodded.

He took her out of the carriage and over the grassy park, to set out the blanket by the edge of the lake, where birds frolicked happily and carefree. At that moment, Christine wished that she herself were a bird – a nightingale, perhaps, like her angel so often called her. Life would be so much simpler then.

She knelt down onto the blanket beside Raoul, who served her a small platter of bread and cheese, fruits and a tiny helping of chocolate that Christine delighted in. For the moment, she put all thoughts and worries of Erik from her mind, focusing on what she knew should be most important – her love for the man at her side, and the knowledge that they would soon be wed, forever together for all their lives. Christine chased away the horrible feeling of doubt.

X0X0X0X

Raoul delivered her back to the Opera House in somewhat good spirits. He'd successfully quelled her many worries, merely from being in his presence, and Christine gave him a rushed kiss to his cheek as he bid her goodbye, hoping he would be satisfied with that, in case Erik were watching her return. She took the roses from where they still resting on the table in the hall, and located in the kitchens a vase to put them in, filling it with water and delicately placing each one into it. She then took them to her dressing room and prepared for her rehearsals.

They went terribly.

Every few lines of her aria, Carlotta would snap some snide remark at her, nothing so hurtful to make Christine give up, but enough to make her falter, and have Monsieur Reyer chastise her over her faults. Finally she finished the piece, and Carlotta sniveled some other remark under her breath, and Christine shot her a look of daggers, one that Madame Giry noticed and wagged her finger disapprovingly at her for. She sighed audible as Carlotta grinned victoriously, pushing past her with the slightest brush of shoulders that made Christine take a step back. She caught herself on the curtains of the stage as the ballet girls took their places for their rehearsals. She wouldn't be needed any longer.

With a swift look over her shoulder, Christine let herself disappear behind the stage and made her way up to her dressing room, her hand against her forehead in an attempt to cool it. When she'd been in the ballet, rehearsals had never been so stressful, and she found herself reminiscing with sad eyes over times past. So much had changed.

She listened at the door of the dressing room for a moment before letting herself in, surprised when she found Erik standing by her dresser, observing her new roses with a surprising intensity. He held one petal between a gloved thumb and forefinger, almost as though trying to decide whether to leave it be, or rip it from its place in the flower. He looked up slowly when Christine entered, no smile evident on his features, his mask shaded in darkness. Finally, he let go of the petal, and Christine found the courage to speak, quickly shutting the door with another glance over her shoulder, leaning back against it when it was securely closed.

"What if it wasn't I who had come in just now, Erik?" She found herself breathing, a horrible thought passing through her mind of one of the ballet girls entering out of curiosity instead, finding the masked man standing there. They would have almost died of fright! And it would have done nothing for the many rumors of the Opera Ghost…

Erik ignored the question, tucking his hands behind his back as he asked, "How was your morning?"

But Christine had no doubt that he already knew where she'd been, and glanced wearily at the roses at his side, "Fine, thank you."

"Did you have an enjoyable time with the Vicomte?"

Defiantly, Christine folded her arms, jutting out her chin, "Yes, thank you. It was quite enjoyable."

"Hmm," Erik nodded, his mind apparently lost in thought as he studied the patterns of the red carpet near her feet, "I suppose you both had much to talk about."

Curious, Christine pushed away from the door, a delicate eyebrow raised, "Meaning?"

Erik gave nothing away though, instead shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, ushering towards the mirror that hung wide, revealing the dark corridor beyond, "Shall we attend our lesson?"

Christine wasn't going to be deterred, though, and pressed forward still, eyes narrowed to slits as she cocked her head to the left like a puppy who had seen something for the first time in their life, "Erik, what do you mean?"

With a sigh, and only the slightest sag of his shoulders, Erik answered, "Well, for one thing, I'm sure that your fiancé will be oh so very happy to know that you are continuing our lessons together. I half expected you not to come upon discovering that you would be spending the morning with him."

Only a hint of anger could be detected in Christine's voice when she replied, "He's my fiancé, Erik – is it a crime to be spending my mornings with the man I love?" Her angel took a step back, as though the words were as much of an inflicted injury as a blow to the gut. He stuttered on the word, repeating it like he had to clarify it to himself as his eyes erratically scanned her features, looking for some sign that her words had been untruthful, a faded hope in his own dark eyes.

For a moment, Christine wondered if it would be best for both of them if she turned around and left him to the dressing room – called off the lessons and let them both go about their days in peace of each other. The only thing they seemed to inflict in each other, after all, was distress. She had to quell the thought quickly, as her stomach churned at the thought of being separated from him again, to not know when he would reveal himself to her. She groaned and stepped closer to him, ignoring the whimper that escaped his lips, as though her closeness would cause him some unseen pain.

"I'm sorry, Erik… it seems all the words I speak these days cause you sadness…" They stood in silence, and finally, she recalled his words from only moments ago, standing up straighter as she went on, "You said… _for one thing_? You mean to say there was another reason for believing Raoul and I had much to discuss?"

He shook his head, unyielding to her question, and turned his attention to the mirror, "I have much to do in preparation for my opera, Christine. If you would please, I will take you to your lesson now, so that after I can get on with my own duties of the day."

With a sigh, Christine obliged him, and allowed him to lead her into the passage behind the mirror. She didn't let herself ponder over the thought that he wasn't expecting to enjoy their lesson – if he wasn't, why bother offering them to her? No, he was only saying that to keep her from her questions. Erik hated her questions.

Not once during their decent into the catacombs did he make any attempt to touch her. Even when it became so dark that she could barely see a breath in front of her, she had only his voice to rely on, to guide her footing and to make sure that she wouldn't trip or fall. A few times, when the terrain became rocky, she felt his hand hover only a few centimeters from the skin of her arm, held there cautiously in case she fell, but of course she never did. In his presence, a certain sense of confidence had settled on her, a confidence she'd missed in all the months they'd been parted. Nevertheless, when finally she caught sight of the boat, lit in a low glow from the lantern that rested on the shore by the lake in wait of them, she let out a held breath of relief.

Erik helped her into the boat and climbed in himself, guiding the vessel soundlessly over the cold water. Christine spied and reached for the coat he'd discarded at the bottom of the boat on some other trip, wrapping it around her to fight off the chill of the catacombs. She'd forgotten how cold it was down here, thankful now that Meg had selected the dress she had, for it was thick and held a good amount of warmth within its fabrics. Christine idly wondered, as she waited for their journey to end, if Erik had admired the dress or not. He hadn't commented… although he rarely did on her choice in attire.

A tingle of excitement chased up her spine as the dock came into view, and in the distance, the warm glow of light that was Erik's home. As Erik finished tying the boat off, he helped her up and took his coat before it slipped from her shoulders, his eye forever trained on her, studying her every breath and reaction. Christine thought he might be nervous. After a moment of consideration, she found that she herself was as well. The last time she'd been here, after all, she'd discovered that he wasn't really an angel, but merely a man – deformed and ordinary. The last time she had been here, she recalled, she'd taken his mask unannounced and suffered his fury as a result. She wondered if he was cautious of his anger now.

He took her up the shore, keeping a couple of feet ahead of her. Quickly, the full sight of his home came into view, dark and yet somehow welcoming against the backdrop of the catacombs, embedded into the rock all around them. Christine shivered in anticipation, happy to welcome this world back into her life – happy to welcome _Erik_ back into her life. He opened the front door and stood aside for her, letting her pass as she crossed the threshold into his realm.

It was warm and comforting in the front room, and he ushered her on, down the dark corridor into the music room. Christine had only seen half of the house (most remained unexplored to her), but she had come to find that a fireplace could be found in most rooms – protection against the cold of the underground. The hearth roared in flames to the right of the music room, filling the air with a heat that Christine, to feel against her skin, almost wanted to moan in content over.

Erik instructed she take her place by the large organ to her right, as he himself took his rightful seat in front of the instrument. Strewn beside it on the wooden table that always housed various composition pieces was his own copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_. He told Christine to use it, for he obviously didn't need it to play the pieces he was going to go through with her. They began with a warm up, and Christine marveled in the knowledge that he was participating with her – not just watching as he so often had done towards the last few lessons she'd had. It was truly like old times, and she smiled at the thought, chasing the expression away when Erik's eyes, full of business, settled on her.

"Good," he muttered, turning his attention to the piano, "Now… let's begin."


	4. Discussions and Slumber

**Name: **Wishes

**Rating: **T, perhaps higher for later chapters

**Summary: **Christine has been forced into a world of chaos. Torn in so many directions, she must now decide how she wants her story to end, as she prepares to perform her angel's opera.

**Disclaimer: **By the age of PotO, you can probably guess I don't own it… never have, never will… I can dream though! All characters belong to Leroux, Webber, and anyone else who took up the task of creating the wonderful characters of Phantom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Time flew by as Christine took her lesson with Erik. When finally he stopped playing his music, her body was fatigued from the effort she'd been putting in to her singing. She pressed her hand to her diaphragm, taking in a deep breath to relax, wiggling her toes in her shoes. Erik watched her, the hint of a smile teasing his lips, and he lowered his hands into his lap to show that he wasn't going to be playing any more music.

"There was progress there, from beginning to end. By opening night you'll be ready." It was as much of a praise as any, and Christine beamed, nodding her head in agreement. Yes, she would get better, especially now that she had her angel to help her. A moment's silence passed by, and Erik looked to the door, almost awkwardly, as though he had something to say that he couldn't quite bear to divulge. Finally he sighed and lifted himself up, "I should take you back now."

Christine felt the immediate pain in her chest at the thought of leaving. She lost all concept of time while in his home, but was certain that her lesson had been well over two hours long. Still, she couldn't leave yet – not just yet! "Oh, please Erik… can't I stay just for a little while? It can't be too late yet… and I've…"

I've missed you. That's what she wanted to say, though she knew she couldn't. What would that do to her, if she said those very words? Erik would probably act out, take it as some sort of reassurance that she was _his_… and he would latch on to the idea and use it against her. No, she couldn't say that… not yet. With a sigh, she lowered her head, "But… if you would prefer to be out of my company… you did say that you had other duties to attend to-" She cut herself off before she babbled any further.

Without looking, she heard him sit back down in his seat in front of the organ, and felt his eyes on her, studying her as always. Christine bit her lower lip, fiddling idly with the skirts of her dress, again wondering what Erik thought of it. Did he like her in pink? Perhaps she should wear the dress more, if he did… Raoul liked it… But then, perhaps that would mean that Erik didn't. Ah! She shook her head, forcing her mind to stop wandering as she stood there. The silence deceased as she caught a coo of laughter from Erik, his form still but his lips curled into a smile. She had to look up at him then, to marvel at that smile she so rarely bore witness to. That little action, the tiny change of his visible features, made him seem a different man – a _softer_ man, whose anger was far away and far less threatening. Christine smiled back.

"You really wish to stay?" He questioned, raising his eyebrow quizzically. The way he said it suggested there was much skepticism in his thoughts, and although he tried to hide it, Christine easily caught the hope that was glowing in his eyes. It warmed her heart to see it there once again.

"If I'm not going to be a bother-"

"No, no," he silenced her quickly, his smile disappearing, swiftly replaced with a determined frown, "Never a bother. Never a bother, Christine…" his voice was quiet as he turned to study the keys of his organ. Christine only smiled wider, daring to take a seat beside him.

She felt him go rigid where he sat, unsure of this new situation that he found himself in. For a moment, he reached his hands up towards the organ's keys, then thought twice, and replaced them into his lap, his frown deepening. Christine let her smile fade only a little, warm and welcoming as he finally looked down at her. "I've… it's been a long time since we've… _spoken_."

They had spoken last night, but Christine knew that's not what he meant. Before all of this, before she had discovered what he really was, he had been an Angel of Music. Christine would sit at her mirror and relay all sorts of stories from her day with him, tell him jokes that she'd learnt from the other girls and sometimes get scolded for thinking that such jokes were appropriate. Christine recalled relishing in the moments when a joke she told actually made him laugh – a beautiful sound that filled her thoughts and daydreams for days on end. But Christine could not speak with Erik as she had once done with her angel. Erik was merely a man – earthbound like any other mortal. There was much that she had to know of him before she could talk so freely with him once more. True, she had shared much with him, but now she couldn't. Especially now that she was engaged to Raoul.

A horrible feeling enveloped her as she recalled Raoul's plan to catch her poor Erik on opening night. She frowned, turning her own attention to the organ, and Erik cocked his head curiously. "What are you thinking?" There was no accusation in his question, merely an inquisitive tone that was almost like a child seeking permission for something it knew would be a long shot from its parents.

"Why does it matter what I'm thinking?"

Erik dared to raise his hand to her, his finger sliding to her chin, turning her ever so gently to face him before once again retreating, "Because it _always_ matters."

A little sliver of nerves chased through her belly, and Christine pressed her lips into a thin line. She wanted so badly to tell him of the plot to ensnare him. But how could she? She had promised Raoul… and Raoul was her fiancé! She did not trust this man. She could not trust him. She trusted Raoul. For all she knew, Erik would only be angry upon hearing such news, and God help her, Christine couldn't incite his anger once more – not yet.

"Christine?" Erik brought her back from her wandering mind, and she sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging.

"When will this nightmare end?…" she breathed.

Erik was silent for a moment, processing her words. She hadn't intended them to have any meaning, but released upon speaking them that they were far from the right words to choose from. Erik stood, fury in his eyes, "Nightmare… yes, I can see how this would be a nightmare… you were so close, weren't you? So close to being free of the monster that lurks beneath your feet! Imagine if I hadn't of come to the masquerade that night, told you that you were to be in my opera… you would have gone off and married that boy, wouldn't you? All thoughts of me gone from your mind!"

"No, Erik!" Christine yelped, standing as well, determination ripe in her features, "I wouldn't of… Erik how could all thought of you leave my mind when you are all I think about! Six months you left me alone, fearful of what you would do, yes, but miserable too to know that I couldn't go to you – I couldn't have my angel to take comfort in, to frighten away my worries… I was a lost child, and of course I took comfort in Raoul! Raoul is my oldest and dearest friend! Who else was I to turn to?"

Erik shook his head and stepped around the organ's seat, turning his back on Christine as though to look at her would only further heighten his rage, "Giry! You could have gone to Madame Giry, or that silly ballet girl you seem to care for so greatly – Giry's daughter, isn't she? You could have gone to your managers… Monsieur Reyer, even! God, Christine, you have any number of people you could have gone to! But instead you go to a man who only seeks your affections to know that he has the love of a goddess not worthy of him! Do you hear me?" He didn't turn around, but turned his head, his masked side the only part of his features visible to her, "He is _not_ worthy of you, or the brilliance of your soul. And yet you give it to him – you give him mind, body and soul so willingly! It pains me, Christine! It _pains_ me to know that…" He panted heavily, lowering his head into his hands, and Christine watched as his shoulders moved slowly up and down before her. After many seconds of Christine standing in awe of his rant, unsure of how to answer, he stood up straight again and said slowly, "Does it shock you to hear that? To think that I care that much… that much for all that is you? No, it doesn't make sense… not when I so easily hurt you that night…"

Christine knew that he spoke of the chandelier, and hid her arms behind her back so that he wouldn't turn his attention back to them if he turned around. It was only evidence of the fact that she shouldn't trust him, and she didn't want evidence of that! God, she wanted only at that moment for him to turn around and show her that he was _good_! Not the devil that everyone told her he was. The thought caught her off guard – was that really all she needed? Evidence of what he really was, behind the mask and the façade that was the Opera Ghost? Christine was sure that there was more than that to him – oh, so much more.

"I shouldn't of left you for so long," she heard him mumble miserably, finally turning, slowly, to face her once more, "It gave them all ample time to poison your thoughts against me… the damage against me must already be too deep for me to-"

"No one poisoned my mind, Erik!" Christine had to defend herself, resenting the idea that she was so easily manipulated.

Erik only laughed, "Of course they did – the Vicomte especially. He _loathes_ me, Christine, and he has made you feel the same way. God help the man who must watch his woman follow a Ghost – no, he would never have that… _I_ would never have that if I were in his position."

Christine couldn't speak. Her head felt dizzy, heavy, and her arms hung limp at her sides. Erik was the embodiment of misery at that moment, and it filled her heart with such woe. She had left _him_ for six months – not the other way around. She had left him to dwell on the idea that she hated him, had left him to think about the words she had spoken so rashly, so wrongly, to Raoul on the roof the night of the chandelier crash. He had been left to this place alone; to concoct all sorts of thoughts over what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Had she come looking for him, she wondered, would he of changed his opinion? Would he believe then that she hated him? Because she did not hate him! She _could not _hate this man that stood before her, no matter what wicked sin he committed, for whatever reason he saw fit.

Still, there was one more thing that needed to be said, and Christine shook as she breathed, "You killed Joseph Buquet, Erik…"

He flinched, but no further anger flared in his features. Instead he studied the seat by the organ that now stood between them, his visible features as expressionless as the mask he wore. Clenching his jaw tightly, he eventually nodded in confirmation, and Christine couldn't help but breath in a cry of despair, clasping her hands to her mouth as he finally acknowledged the murder, as she finally witnessed him confirm the deed. Before then, she could make up any story she wanted to excuse Erik of such a sin – she could pretend that Buquet had slipped and fell, or that he had blatantly committed suicide… now, though, there was no hiding from the truth. As she composed herself, Christine felt hot tears in her eyes, "Why?"

Erik blinked, his frown deep over his eye, "I have no reason that will comfort you, Christine. He was a threat to me, and over the years I have learnt that threats are best dealt with quickly and without remorse."

"And so you feel no remorse for what you did?"

"I feel remorse for what it has done to you!"

Christine shook her head defiantly, grinding her teeth, "It does not matter what it has done to me! It matters that you took another man's life, Erik!"

"_Everything_ matters when it concerns you, Christine! What it has done to you is alter your opinion of me – you now know that I am not the angel you so hoped me to be. Well, it's true – I could never be that creature, a creature of the Lord. I am of darkness. I will _never_ be a creature of the Lord."

"Please don't, Erik," Christine could hear no more, raising a hand for him to be silent.

Instead he strode forward; took her hand in his and pressed her palm to his chest. He let her feel his erratic heartbeat beneath his shirt, "I am _not_, Christine. But that does not mean that I don't _feel._ That does not mean that I cannot worship you, _need_ you like any other man. God, I've pined for you, Christine! I've wallowed in loathsome self-pity down here for months without you near, without your voice to guide me and help me through my days! You know I almost didn't reveal myself the night of the masquerade? I watched you for hours in his arms, smiling and doting on him like a loyal pet – I even considered the idea of leaving everything there, my opera, my desires, you… I couldn't though! I had to see you; I had to be once again in your presence… I _need_ you in my life and I can't stand the thought of living without you, Christine! Oh, God help me…"

His grip on her wrist was strong as he spoke, and Christine wanted to cry out in fear as he relayed feelings that she herself had been feeling for months. With as much strength as she could muster, Christine pulled her hand free of his grasp, shaking her head and stepping back, "I can't do this, Erik! You can't speak such things… I am engaged to Raoul. I am marrying Raoul!"

"Yes… yes, because you love Raoul." It was said like he didn't really believe it, and with a huff, he fell back into his seat, stare fixed to the floor at his feet. Again their time together has been used up fighting, with him yelling at her for things Christine was sure she didn't deserve to hear. She did, though. Guilt had overcome her in the minutes he'd used to speak, the words she had used to describe him and her feelings towards him that night with Raoul taking over her mind. How had she said those things? She had meant none of them, and was spurned on only by fear. She had needed Raoul's comfort then, because she could not have her angel's. Was that what Raoul had become? A substitute for the loss of an angel… it hardly seemed right.

The ring around her neck suddenly felt very heavy, and Christine had to work hard to quell the desire to rip it from its chain and throw it across the room.

"Are you ready to leave now?"

"No."

"Hmm."

Christine stood still for a moment, expecting Erik to tell her that she had to leave, or that she should leave even if she didn't want to. He did nothing though, instead continued to keep his gaze on the floor, her presence seemingly forgotten to him. With an audible sigh that she intended for him to hear, Christine moved away from the organ and over to where he had set up a small, green couch by the fire. She sat down in it, curling into a small ball, legs hitched up beneath her and skirts ruffled all around her. Christine pressed her head to the armrest, staring into the flames that were so warm against her skin. Behind her, she could hear Erik stir, and a moment later a slow, melancholic tune filled her ears as he played his music. The song was riveting, and Christine listened intently to each perfect note, letting her eyes softly close as the music filled the room. She felt tears on her cheeks, ignoring the knowledge that his music should not affect her so greatly. With every note, Erik poured his whole heart and soul into the piece, his fingers effortlessly gliding over the keys, his head low and eyes closed as he played what he felt.

Christine didn't dare look back at him, knew that if she did she would be enticed to join him at the organ. Instead, she burrowed deeper into the couch, letting the music take her to another world. She drifted off to sleep just as the piece finished, only to be joined with another at its end.

X0X0X0X

Erik played for hours. He had lost track of time, as he always did when he poured his emotions into the pieces he concocted at his organ. When at last the music silenced, and he sat there, breathless and deep in thought, he realized that Christine hadn't bothered him once. Out of fear that she had run off, trying to find her way to the surface without his help, he turned quickly, already on his feet. A wave of relief swept over him when he saw her form still on the couch, head in the same position on the armrest as when he'd last – only – checked on her. Her skin was rosy in the light of the fire, the light of the flames dancing across her features, bathing her in a glow that only a goddess could possess.

Slowly, so slowly so as not to wake her, Erik crept over to where she lay, her breathes even and steady, deep in sleep. Her hands were clasped tightly together around the ring at her neck, and Erik couldn't help but reach out and part her fingers, let them curl around his own hand instead of a mere trinket bestowed upon by a Vicomte. He wanted to curse himself for thinking it – knew that he should not. How could he not, though? Her delicate fingers were so very light against his cool skin, warming his own fingers where hers held tightly. In the midst of sleep, Christine sighed, and he wondered where her mind was – what dreamland her thoughts had taken her to.

He noticed her shiver.

Without a moments more hesitation, Erik stood and very gently roped his arms beneath Christine's sleeping form. He was as delicate as he could be – fearing so greatly the thought of her waking as he lifted her into his arms. Her hair tickled his skin, soft and warm as the rest of her. She mumbled something incoherent, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his chest, curling fingers against the lapel of his jacket. Erik had to force his mind stay focused to his task of moving her, fearing what course of action he'd take if he continued to stare down at the girl in his arms as he took her out of the music room and down the hall.

He pushed open the door to her awaiting bedroom. How long had he dreamed of taking her in there? Of showing her what pleasures he'd created for her – look Christine, he thought, I've even given you a mirror! He lowered her onto the bed, the dark sheets complimenting her perfect, porcelain skin. Tucking the blanket up around her, making sure that she would be warm enough, Erik turned back to tend to the fire and then settle in to the lounge chair he'd thoughtfully placed in the corner. Until she woke, it couldn't hurt to simply watch her, could it? She was so perfect…

Erik swore then that he would not be forced to part with her again, not for months on end. Not even if she commanded it of him. Because, Erik knew, he could not give Christine up. No, no matter what he did, he could not leave her to the hands of the Vicomte.

X0X0X0X

When Christine woke, she was lying in a large, silken bed, warm and comfortable. The covers were pulled up around her, and her shoes had been removed. It was like that first night down in Erik's home all over again; only she had never been in this room before. When she had awoken that first time, it had been on the couch in the living room, covered in a thick blanket of wool. She sat up, observing her surroundings.

The silk sheets were a rich purple, with elegant stitching embroidered into the fabric. Plush cushions lay strewn about on the huge bed, too tall for Christine's feet to reach the floor even if she dangled them out of it. Beside her was a mahogany table, empty but for a full glass of water. Little beads of wetness encircled it, showing that once it had been a _cold_ glass of water before the warmth of the room had caused it to perspire. A fire roared to her left, with a fresh log in place, already half-eaten away by the flames, and a large, purple lounge chair rested against the wall to her right, facing towards the bed. It was empty, but Christine couldn't help but imagine Erik sitting there, watching her in her sleeping state. It brought a blush to her cheeks. Beside it was a large chest of draws, and in the corner, opposite the fireplace, was a large dressing table, strewn with perfumes, combs and other such fine objects for her use. One large mirror stood on it, the first she had seen in the house, and she mentally thanked Erik for that. Directly opposite the bed on the other side of the room was the door that no doubt led out to the main hall, and the wall to Christine's left housed a door, which she could only guess led to a bathroom.

She marveled at the room as she took it in, dark as it was, bathed only in a few candles and the fire's lights. It must have taken Erik forever to assemble it, hours of consideration at what to add and what not to add. She could imagine him fussing over colours, finally deciding on purple – Christine vaguely recalled that that was a colour of royalty, was it not? She bit her bottom lip at the thought. She thought about how he must have argued with himself when it came to adding the mirror.

Christine wondered what the chest of draws held within them. She pushed her blankets aside, hopping down, her feet cold against the plush carpet she landed on. Her shoes had been placed at the foot of the bed, and she slipped them on. She didn't look in the draws, didn't really want to know what effort Erik had put into adding things to it. Instead she headed to the door, checking her appearance in the mirror before opening it.

She immediately heard a clatter from the kitchen down the hall to her left. Shutting her door quietly, she crept down the hall, not wishing to disturb Erik of whatever it was he was doing. Light streamed against the opposite wall of the door that led into the kitchen, and every so often his shadow bounced into view, busy as ever. Christine caught the smell of cooking, breathing deeply as she relished in the scent. When was the last time she'd eaten? For a worrying moment, she realized that she didn't even know what time it was. Had she slept through the afternoon, into the night?

She'd have to ask Erik.

When she reached the door, she poked her head around to investigate. Erik had his back to her, his attention on whatever it was he was cooking on the stove. Behind him stood a small, wooden table, just big enough for two. He'd only laid out one plate and mug, already filled with some steaming hot beverage.

"You were expecting me to rise soon, I take it?" Christine hummed as she looked at the scene, and she almost laughed when he jumped, clattering the frying pain in his hand against the stove.

"Christine!" Erik exclaimed, a worried glance turned back to her. Christine smiled, taking a seat at the table and pointing at the mug, "Is this for me, by any chance?"

After a moment of shock, Erik nodded, "Hot chocolate. I hope it's to your liking."

Her stomach grumbling, Christine raised the drink to her lips, letting the hot liquid warm her throat as she greedily gulped it down, "It's delicious, Erik! I never realized you could cook."

"There was never a time to show you that I could," he shrugged off, turning back to his cooking. After a minute, he brought the frying pan over to her and scooped a fresh omelet onto her plate, sizzling with heat. Christine could smell an array of exotic herbs that he had used in its making, wondering vaguely where he had acquired such tastes. He placed the pan in the sink and extinguished the stove before taking a seat opposite her, producing a knife and fork for her to eat with. Christine waited a moment for it to cool before taking a bite.

"It's wonderful, Erik," she praised, nodding encouragement. Erik nodded, but said nothing, watching instead as she took another bite, following the movements of her hands. "Will you not have any?"

He waved a dismissive hand, "I've already eaten."

Halfway through her meal, Christine frowned, remembering the need to ask, "What time is it?"

"It's late. You've been asleep for a few hours… I couldn't bear to wake you. You've not been sleeping well lately?" It was a simple summary that he probably didn't need an answer to. Was it that obvious, though? Her cheeks reddened under his constant gaze. Of course she hadn't. Christine had far too much on her mind to sleep well at the present time, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten a decent night's sleep.

Clearing her throat, and taking another sip of the hot chocolate beside her plate, Christine answered simply, "Not very well."

"Hmm. I suppose it's understandable."

She didn't want to discuss why it was understandable though, and instead waved her hand at her food, "Where did you find these herbs that you've used, Erik? They truly are great."

Erik noticed something on his shirtsleeve that Christine was fairly sure was an imaginary piece of lint, and brushed it off, taking in a deep breath, "From Persia. I spent some time there." That was the end of the explanation, and Christine wondered when he'd ever found the time to venture to Persia. There was so much that she didn't know of this man… so much that she _wanted_ to know. With a sigh, she finished off her meal in silence, ignoring Erik's eyes on her.

When she was done, he took her plate and placed it in the sink, "I really should take you back now. They'll begin to worry."

Everyone from the world above was no doubt in bed. Christine wasn't tired, but knew that Erik was right – she did have to leave now, if only to avoid rumors of her whereabouts. Most would probably just assume that she was with Raoul… rumors in the Opera House, though, often escalated quickly. With a slow nod, she rose from her chair and followed Erik down the hall, stretching her arms as she did. She wanted to be rid of the dress she wore – sleeping in corsets and tightly bound outfits never did anything for Christine's nerves and patience, the same as anyone, and she welcomed the thought that she would soon be able to change.

Leaving the house, she vowed that she would be returning soon, and followed Erik down to the boat. For the most part, their journey was taken in silence. Halfway across the lake, though, Erik had begun to hum – some melody that Christine couldn't place, but she was happy to listen nonetheless. As the boat scrapped the shore of the other side he stopped, as though in check of his actions, and didn't continue the tune. For a few metres that they walked Christine went alone, following only the sound of his footsteps, but when she felt him turn around to watch and make sure she didn't trip on one of the stone steps that led up to the first of the winding corridors, she latched onto his arm, roping it around her own as though he were merely escorting her down a street in the city.

"Christine-" he tried to object, but Christine only squeezed tighter, a show of defiance to his desire to pull away. The darkness was a bad influence on her – it made her bold when she knew she shouldn't be. What would Raoul have thought of her then? Walking arm in arm with a man she'd condemned as a monster. When daylight came Christine wondered if she'd regret her action, as subtle as it was.

The corridors began to feel familiar as they reached the higher levels, and finally they arrived at the mirror that opened out to her dressing room. Christine let go of an unsteady breath, "Thank you, Erik."

"You shouldn't thank me."

She blinked, confused, "Why? You spent hours with me today, working on my voice, when you didn't have to. If anything, I should be _more_ grateful."

Erik was silent as he pondered her words. Eventually, he reached up and popped the latch that opened the mirror, and it opened only a crack. Christine leaned her back against the stone behind her, a sign that she wasn't yet ready to leave, and Erik sighed in frustration, "Why are you acting like this now? I've resigned myself to the fact that you are marrying the Vicomte…"

"No you haven't, Erik…" She shouldn't speak like this, Christine knew, but something had snapped in her when she'd walked in on Erik cooking dinner for her. It was such an innocent duty – making someone's dinner for them. Coupled with the room she had been so privileged to see, her head was spinning in a million different directions. The ring around her neck seared her skin; cast an emotion within her that Christine didn't care to think about now. Now, she only wanted to know what Erik saw in her… what Erik _wanted_ from her, aside from performing his opera. The thought of her life with Raoul, as set on it as she had been, seemed distant and… unfathomable… in comparison to having Erik in her life, no matter how small of a role he played. Christine couldn't live without him. Couldn't leave his presence without knowing that he'd return. "Will we meet for another lesson tomorrow, _Ange_?"

"Christine…" Erik wanted to stop her from using that name. It wasn't a name fit for the likes of him. "Yes, I would like to continue work on your voice. But don't you think that-"

"I don't want to think anymore, Erik." The admission was a shock to both of them, and Christine wanted to retract it as soon as she said it. It was true, that was for sure. She was sick of her doubts and thoughts and regrets… she wanted only to rely on what she _felt_, but couldn't even decide on that! She felt torn, that much she knew. Torn between two opposing forces that threatened to break her, leave her as nothing but a drooling mess.

As she thought this, she realized that Erik had stepped closer to her, so close that she could feel the warmth that emanated from his skin. He lowered his head so that his lips were only inches away from her ear, and in a hoarse whisper, said, "I think that would be a bad idea, don't you?" It was teasing, and Christine wanted to push him away. Instead, she let her hands rest on his chest, breathed in his scent, rested her forehead against his shoulder. He moaned in approval of the action, cupping her head delicately in his hand, tugging her still closer as one hand came to rest at her waist. Her hair was so soft in his fingers, curling and entwining around them….

"Erik…"

"Christine."

Sense struck her then, and Christine did pull back, eyes wide. How did he do that to her? How could he make her fall so quickly into his embrace? She truly had stopped thinking, and her cheeks felt hotter than ever as she stared up at him. Reality beckoned her, and Christine breathed out deeply, ignoring the look of shock and hurt that had found their way to Erik's expression. She swallowed, shaking a little, noticed that he was shaking too. She raised her hand and touched it lightly to his arm, "I'm… Erik, I can't."

He blinked, shaking his head, "No. I know. Go to bed, Christine. I'll see you tomorrow." His voice was strong and showed no hint of annoyance or sorrow, and Christine shut her mouth to stop herself from saying anything more. She nodded her head, stepped closer to the mirror and pushed it open a little wider.

"Goodnight, Erik," she said over her shoulder.

"Sleep well, _Ange_." He breathed, almost inaudible.

With one last glance at the man she was leaving behind, Christine fled into the world she should have been able to take comfort in. She shut the mirror and headed instantly to the door, ignoring the desire to go back. Comfort could only be found in this world, Christine told herself, and she would not yield to her sudden – or, discovered – desire to chase after the darkness. She practically slammed the dressing room door shut as she left it behind, heading up to the dormitories to change and ready for bed. She could worry about her actions tomorrow. For now, sleep once again seemed like the more inviting path to take.


End file.
